


Dream of Dales

by Vishampi



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 16:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17227040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vishampi/pseuds/Vishampi
Summary: An alternative/future universe Dragon Age, roughly 200 years after the original DA:I happens.Unfinished. It's been way too long now for me to resume, as I have forgotten some of the world-building I have done, lost notes, and so on. I'll leave it here for my future reference, though. May re-work it into something one day.





	1. --Prologue--

**\-- 9:45 Dragon Age, to Awakened Age, to 11:45 Reborn Age --**

In the year 9:45 Dragon, an ancient mage known as Fen’Harel gathered enough power to tear down the Veil - the barrier separating our waking world and the Fade. He had not anticipated the amount of resistance the scattered remnants of the disbanded Inquisition would put up, and the ritual had been thwarted just before its culmination.

It is said that Fen’Harel perished in the great explosion that caused the rift, but there are tales in our times that say otherwise. The former Inquisitor and his companions that stopped Fen’Harel disappeared for a time, only to reemerge later, without explanation, and unaging over the coming years.

The Veil remained. So did Thedas, unchanged to a degree - a tear in the world formed, caused by the foiled spell.

The new orb Fen’Harel used for his spell lodged itself into the very fabric of the Fade, untouchable and indestructible. A dimensional rift opened in its place, fascinating all the surviving mages within the land.

There was only one land of dreams. Some called it the Fade. In other worlds, the realm was better known as the Emerald Dream. On Earth, they didn’t consider the land of dreams to be real nor their dreams to hold any consequence. Each connected world held a different concept of dreams, spirits and afterlife. But all these names, all these various concepts: all were one, infinite world. Far apart and unaware of each other,  the orb now connected them all.

On occasion, the orb would flare.  A wild burst of unstable magic, blistering through the worlds, pulling and twisting on the fabric of time and space. It would change the lives of many creatures caught in its wake, human or not, pulling them through their dreams into a completely new world. They were forced to adapt - or die trying.

Those who didn’t perish at once would be remembered as the Awakened - an out-of-place element, sometimes obvious at the first glance by their unnatural look, sometimes nearly impossible to distinguish from the natives. A backlash against anyone out of the ordinary soon followed. A paranoia running through the world making people fear their sleep and that one odd neighbour they had.

Most of the Awakened fared badly; feared and shunned and often hunted over superstition and prejudice.  Most survived only in a perpetual state of life in shadows. They would run, and they would hide, avoiding being spotted or captured, as death was often inevitable at the hands of scared and uneducated crowds.

An even less desirable fate awaited those who were caught to be experimented on, in a bid to reveal their hidden powers - which were, more often than not, nonexistent. They were studied like lab rats, subjected to morbid and horrifying manipulations and tests. Considered less than human, less than a broken slave, a black market focused on capturing and trading the Awaken started to blossom through Thedas’ underworld, creating new kind of a crime against humanity - as if Thedas didn't have enough.

Very rarely the Awakened would cross back to their original world. But those few who did and survived yet another tear in time and space, would be revered among their peers, celebrated and worshipped as the new would-be-Gods, elevated to the highest status after a king for the knowledge they brought from the foreign lands.

One hundred and fifty years later, at 10:95 Awakened, Thedas became a place of powerful magic, existing alongside advanced technology brought from across the universe. Employed by the Institute of Dreaming Studies, the handful of returning Awakened would share their knowledge. It would be recorded, researched and soon turned into practical use. Those Awakened would be praised, recorded in history books, and taught about in schools as the beacons of advancement in Thedas. Called the Reborn, this handful of returnees led a happy life.

A whole new science emerged.  It was dedicated to the peculiar way of gathering information through powerful, sleeping mages as they waited for a flare in hopes of becoming an Awakened in another world. The newly established Institute of Dreaming Studies would gather mages of a very young age in a bid to educate the possible Awakened to retain as much information as possible. As IoDS forced them into an artificial slumber, these young mages would wander the Fade, gathering whatever knowledge possible from spirits and demons alike, in their years-long wait for the orb’s blessing.

On occasion, the orb would fulfill the Institute’s wishes and send one of the sleeping mages away; in a handful of cases, they returned, armed with the well trained memory of new technologies and advancements for Thedas.

By the 11:45 Reborn, several groups struggled for an uncontrolled grasp on power, or to undermine it all:

The New Inquisition, trying to enforce a military order in all the chaos. Among the largest and most supported ones, the NI’s cause was honorable, although the amount of blood spilled in a bid to reach the desired peace was harder and harder to ignore even by the most optimistic of their supporters.

The Venatori Cult, a Tevinter centered group focused on cutting through all the resistance in their way to the lodged orb, an artifact so powerful that the Tevinter Imperium would rule strong and absolute once more, if only they had it. These were among the cruelest of experimentators on the Awakened, actively hunting down any new and inexperienced travelers lurched into their world, often focusing on children - who were among the most common to suddenly appear in Thedas.

The Red Jenny Organisation, the most seedy of the groups, but arguably the most just, rescuing all the misfits off the streets, and those unfortunate enough to be caught in the wake of the Third Civil War. Their runners were as often used in the legal world as in the shadows. They were considered among the most trustworthy and capable while delivering information and sensitive cargo. RJO actively used all its members to undermine the ruling order of elites and to disrupt the warring groups’ agendas. As such they were often considered an enemy of all.

And then, the least known group of all, with no real name, and only a skillfully hidden tattoo to mark its members - the followers of Fen’Harel, those who believed him still alive. Through meticulous research and a well connected net of contacts in the IoDS, often in close cooperation with RJO, they aimed to reverse the spell thwarted hundreds of years ago, retrieve the orb, and hand it to Fen’Harel, wherever he was and whoever he was disguised as. He’d tear the Veil down, not as before, but swiftly and without regret, bringing forth a better Thedas for all - or so they believed.

It was on one such fateful day in 11:45 Reborn, full burst in chaos of infighting over the capital city of Redcliffe, when the orb flared again. Salome, a mere Earthling, the lowest of possible Awakened, with no magic to posses and no exceptional physique to protect her, was pulled into Thedas within her dreams. It was her eleventh birthday, and this is her story.


	2. --1--

**Drakonis,* 11:65 Reborn***

  
The streets of the old parts of Val Royeaux are a dusty, muddy labyrinth of derelict housing, interwoven with overgrown gardens, wild bushes and half collapsed lover’s alcoves only the adventurous types dare to use. On the broader streets, lined by worn-out cobblestone, it’s easy to stumble upon an excited noble trying his luck in the infamous part of the city. During daylight, old Val Royeaux appears nearly as normal as any respectable town; it is during the night when walking the streets sends shivers down the spine, and the feeling of a thousand wicked eyes piercing through the darkness hastens everyone’s step to a near run.

Near the docks, the crush of waves of the Waking Sea overshadows every other sound; the rhythm is relentless and dark, and oddly calming. It scares most of the rats away, and the locomotion of shipments and boats dies off every night, only to resume by dawn. The nights are calm and pitch black here, penetrated only by sparsely scattered glow lamps, and an occasional drunk crossing dangerously close to the drop-off. It would be silly to think one can wander the streets safely past dusk, however; many lives are lost in the silent, ebony nights ruling over the darkened docks.

The bodies float in the bay as soon as the morning sun breaks through. Most residents simply walk by, ignoring the Inquisition forces crowding by the scene in a bid to solve yet another unsolvable crime. There’s always someone who deserves to die, and there’s always someone rich enough to pay for the death of another.

A floating, obese body splashes against one of the tied boats, and my eyes avert from the sight nearly automatically. A quick glance at the tiny wall clock hanging over the book-littered counter tells me one thing - I am terribly late. A sigh forms on my lips. My legs are heavy from yesterday’s training, but I push myself up, slip a large linen bag over my shoulder and fumbling with the three sturdy locks securing my tiny studio, I finally manage to stumble out on the street.

A passing man throws a dark glance my way as I make a good show of locking the door. The docks crawl with petty thieves, waiting for their chance if one is not careful enough. At least on this level - I never visited the decorated gardens stretching a story above my head, or the even more splendid terrace overlooking the bay another story higher, safely distanced from all the grimy low-lives trying to survive deep below.

A beggar snatches after my leg as I rush through the narrow streets and jump over his outstretched hands. He shouts something rude my way, but the swearing gets lost in the sounds of the busy street ahead of me. Yesterday’s rain muddied a lot of the residual dust, and most of the people I come across are of the low ranked sort, paddling through the layer of reddish mud. They hold their skirts and pants tugged high, so they can salvage at least some dignity by the time they enter the rich part of the city, should they head that way.

“Lyrium will run out within fifty years, claims University of Orlais!” shouts a scrawny elven boy near me and flaunts a freshly printed paper in the air. A thick stack of the newspapers near his feet resists the afternoon breeze, secured by a large rock. He has to sell it all - or be subject to a beating from whomever sent him here to earn the coin.

“Read the Morning Herald, and find out what Lady Archambault said to the New Inquisition leaders!” announces another, even skinnier boy, trying to overtake the first one. His stack is thinner - gossip just sells better. Some commoners and merchants stop by and flip through the pages, humming and nodding as they skim over the headlines.

Elven servants of richer houses start to appear as I head to an unmarked messenger outpost. The elves avoid my step, recognizing the strand of blue hair that left my braid. I have been known to have a little temper when in a hurry, and after the last incident when Sera had to run out of the house and pry me off a Dalish prick that made fun of me, I have been given an uninterrupted pass through the area.

Mostly. Except for that tattooed idiot.

But he doesn’t lurk outside today and I pull my hoodie further over my face before my step halts in front of a blanched, ornate door. A triple patterned knock and the door cracks open, wide enough for me to squeeze through.

“You’re late,” hisses a ginger-haired girl hiding behind it, and smacks a folder of papers against my hip.

“Sorry.”

She shrugs. “Ain’t gonna be me Sera screams at.”

But despite me “being late”, the messengers don’t work on a set schedule. Only when the package turns out to be sensitive, Sera chases us to deliver it at lightning speed. I learned years ago how to handle the streets for such a cargo, and my childhood finally starts to pay off. In a way.

“Your stuff, as usual. Be careful, though. This guy was all sketchy; I’m telling you,” Li’fen - the redhead - calls out from behind a pile of papers and bites into a candy bar. The only chubby Dalish I know.

I smirk. “Sketchy? Sketchier than the folk in this room?”

An outraged growl carries through and I dodge an empty carton thrown my way. A muscular man with bright green eyes grins at me and salutes. His long, thin ears are adorned by golden earrings. An elf by all means, although not of this world, Theran spends most of his days closed in the outpost. He sorts all the incoming cargo and organizes other messengers.

“No offense intended,” I say, and he flicks his long, thin ear.

Li’fen peeks over the pile at her desk and lowers her voice to a conspiratory whisper. “Yeah, like...the cultists sketchy.”

I roll my eyes. “I thought it’s a story told to scare kids?”

“You thought wrong!” Li’fen chirps, and a smile spills over her full lips.

She loves mystery. And suspense, and romance. Li’fen is the ultimate romantic in disguise, and when she’s not buried in letters and numbers, she curls in a corner and consumes smutty literature at an alarming pace.

I tilt my head. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? An affair with the Followers.”

“Affair?” Her eyes gleam. “Imagine. What if they are real? And this sketchy guy falls for you. Hiding in shadows. Stealing kisses. Brief, desperate touches. Oh, this is great!”

She dips low and pulls out a thin, red print. “Almost like The Story of Forbidden Love!” Her fingers brush over the spine and she falls into a daydream. “Go on, then. Your package of romantic mysteries is in your lair.”

She waves my way and opens the book with a loud, satisfied sigh. Theran smiles almost fondly as the frizzy hair disappear behind the pile of papers, and I cross the larger room with few long steps. The package waits in a small side room, damp from the rain that dripped through the damaged ceiling. The letter is wrapped in a translucent foil and when my fingers run over it, I let out a surprised gasp.

“Something’s an issue?” asks Theran from across the room. I mumble something noncommittal and pull my fingerless glove tighter over my thumb. A dim blue glow illuminates the folder and I face the dust-covered window, trying to calm my heartbeat down.

“Crap,” I swear quietly.

There shouldn’t be any glow at all. I’ve forgotten to put on my foundation. I contemplate another visit to my apartment, but drop the idea when my eyes brush over the nondescript package. Magically sealed envelopes signal problems. The sooner this is out of the way, the better.

As my breath calms, the glow disappears. I collect the papers, stuff them in the bag together with a simple half-mask that came with it, and head out.

“Pop a mint before you speak to him!” shouts Li’fen just before the door closes and I bite down a grin. She’d pair me up with a Maker forsaken follower of Fen’Harel just to enjoy the drama that stems from it.

A crumpled note informs me where to head - the address is located in the new part of Val Royeaux.

The streets widen as I make my way through the city. I hurry past simply dressed humans, arguing merchants and patrolling guards in shiny armour with New Inquisition crest. The central part of the city is bustling with life and I cross the old square and the famous market hunched and in a hurry. With a disgusted noise, I avoid the bloodied gallows where bloodthirsty citizens gather every seventh day to witness a gore theatre.

Soon, the merchants change into masked nobles, modestly and tastefully dressed where I walk - the outskirts of the real royalty, families out of favour or of befallen fortune, but with names still far removed from commoners.

I rest the simple silver mask on my nose, and tie it under my braid. It must look peculiar at best - comfortable runner pants and jacket with a mask meant to blend in with the nobles - but at the very least, I’ll be considered someone’s serving girl and pass through the streets unmolested.

I weave my way through the masked crowd, skillfully avoiding any collisions with carriages. Two odd vehicles crawl through an expensive shopping avenue, putting the wealth of their owners on a grand display: to own one you have to be considerably rich and influential. The cars run on pure lyrium, and the drivers often suffer an early death by exposure.

I shudder at the sight and try to disappear inside of my jacket. As with any magic, natural or artificial, my skin lights up and tingles when the vehicles come closer, and I pray everyone is way too enamoured by the invention to look my way.

A small, abandoned lover’s alcove across the street catches my eye and I slip in to take a breath.   
The admiring group moves along with the lyrium cars and slowly disappears behind a corner. Close call. I can’t afford being caught. Not here, not now, not so close to having enough sovereigns to finally disappear.

I tug on my sleeves to hide a small red tattoo on my wrist. It serves well in the old town streets - being recognized as a high ranking member within Jennies brings gratitude and respect in the proper crowd. But here, in the fancy part of the city, it’d haul my ass directly to a dungeon.

A quick survey of my surroundings gives me hope. A rusty gate, constrained by an ancient lock, rattles in the wind across the street. The gate is high, but the smith made sure its golden ornaments spoke of wealth. And now, with the garden long abandoned, it speaks of an easy climb.

The bag thuds in the tall grass and I land on all fours, dampening the fall like a cat. The garden is unkempt and wild, and if I wasn’t running with a magically sealed letter stuffed in my pockets, I’d stop and settle in for a short respite. I make a mental note of the place and break into a casual run, jumping over crumbling walls and rusting fences. I didn’t think the glass-and-silverite part of the city would suffer messy alleys; but it does, well to my advantage.

Double checking the address against a street sign visible through the sprawling greenery, I slow down and calm my breath. Hoodie up, sleeves down. As inconspicuous as I can be, I dive into the richly dressed crowd flowing in and out of an intimidatingly large building.

There are pillars supporting seemingly nothing, stretching and swirling along wide alabaster walls, three stories up. Rows and rows of tall windows stare on the street and reflect the afternoon sun with the ferocity of summer, warming up the cool air around it. The roof is guarded by rain-stained gryphons, a silent reminder that the Grey Wardens are impatiently waiting for a disaster to happen: it’s been ages since the last blight.

The cobblestone of the street is pristine white, and I fail to recall what kind of stone is pure white; but this is the rich part of the city.  It’s completely possible this street was designed with magic in mind, and the stones were nothing like that before they hammered them into the ground.

I linger on the street a bit longer, half hidden in another alcove. Nobles, masked and proud without reason, pour both ways in a seemingly organized manner. Students from a nearby university occasionally weave through the lofty skirts and expensive suits. Several children accompanied by a raven-haired teacher jump around the broad staircase excitedly.

Two doormen stand by the richly ornamented entrance, polite smiles and distant eyes set ahead. The wealthy walk by them as if they were a simple piece of furniture, and they treat them with an inner scorn only their kind can see.

Their pointy ears are tastefully tugged underneath a blue beret, to avoid offending the delicate mind of a passing royal. I would feel sorry for the elves, if I didn’t know that the job pays well. Well enough to grit their teeth through the occasional slur when an Orlesian realizes they are indeed alive; well enough to stand in one place for half a day, unmoving and unassuming.

When the crowd thins and all the students disappear inside, I move. A hand over the bag to keep it secured, a small nod to the doormen. Both give me a suspicious look, but keep their plastered smiles in place not to give me away. The camaraderie elves share across this blighted capital saves me once again. I suppress a smile - if they only knew that what they saw was a lie. But it serves me well, and I slip into the marble adorned lobby.

Three humans sit by a rounded desk, and answer inquiries.

“I’ll send a messenger once we acquire the print, my lord,” says a tiny blond behind the counter and glimpses over my misfit presence. She’s worried I’ll scare off the fragile minds of better blood. I shoot a little smirk her way and step into the shadow. Her shoulders slump in relief.

“Thank you. I’d appreciate the collection as soon as possible.” A flamboyantly dressed man nods and leaves without sparing me a look. So much for seeing rabbits.

A young elf without vallaslin stacks books on the side of the lobby, and writes a neat mark for each tome into a paper laying beside her. Two nobles chat with her, and her ears turn ruby red when one of the women pulls out a fan and frantically waves it in front of her face.

I bite down the words forming on my lips. She doesn’t deserve such derision. Forcefully, I pry my eyes away and take short glances through the library. The long, spacious room is lined by shelves filled with manuscripts and books, and several narrow staircases lead to a second, wooden level to give access to the higher placed tomes. Rows of red-wood desks line the middle, occupied by silent figures leaning over pages and pages of knowledge. Smaller, one-person desks rest against few nooks and crannies, and some of the kids from earlier sit by them, writing intently.

Unlike the ruckus outside its door, the library is almost eerily quiet. Words are spoken hushedly and only when necessary. Feet shuffle and pages rustle.

And I stand by the entrance with my mouth gaping wide. This place...is like a dream.

Never in my life have I set foot in a building like this, and like the elven girl by the counter, I suddenly drown in a wild blush creeping over my cheeks. The lack of my own skill screams at me. I feel out of place, and not because of the dark hoodie and khaki pants. I feel illiterate. Uneducated. Stupid.

I can barely read. The few books I stole on the streets that lay on my counter have pictures, and I get a headache trying to read the words. I can’t hold an ink pen or a quill for the life of me. I sketch, yes - with a burnt out coal from a fireplace. It gets my fingers dark and dirty, and the coal sticks underneath my nails. Even now, my nails are covered in hardly washable black dust.

“Are you lost?” A sharp, disapproving voice pulls me out of my daze. The counter lady.

“Not really,” I mumble and step out of the shadow to indicate I actually do belong here, despite what she might think.

The person I’m supposed to find is another elf, and as I scan the silent crowd, I’m surprised by the amount of non-humans bent over books. I’ve always thought of this part of Val Royeaux as human only, and such a lofty institution to be racially restricted, public access or not. Wrong assumption. Plenty of ears point up, some adorned by jewelry, and my eyes come across a vallaslin at one point, leaving me completely dumbfounded. A Dalish in a public library. That’s like...a rainbow unicorn. Isn’t it?

I spot my contact under an enormous depiction of Empress Celene. As I walk through the hall, my steps resonate and few glance my way. I walk softly, yet here you could hear a needle drop on the polished wooden floor. I pass by young and old, soft and fit, nobles and commoners. Two ladies barely out of teenagehood stand close to my contact, and I avoid them in a wide circle.

“The portrait doesn’t do her justice,” whispers one in a blue satin dress, hiding her lips behind a hand-painted fan.

Her companion leans to her, milky pearls in her ebony hair glimmering in the light, and answers, “She was beautiful, was she not? This is such a blasphemy!”  
I hide my smirk. Unless they celebrated two hundred and thirtieth birthdays, they’d hardly know how the former Empress truly looked. A quick glimpse tells me the artists was rather merciful - unlike most of her historical depictions, the large gap between her front teeth isn’t present here.

With a grace I didn’t know I posses, I slip into a chair opposite an aging elf. Casually, I pull out the envelope while holding it in between the sleeve of my jacket. He lifts a brow at the gesture, but takes the missive with the tiniest nod, and I lean back in the chair, happy to have it out of my hand. He takes his time going over the letters and my eyes wander around.

The Val Royeaux library is beautiful. It smells of old paper and a little of mold; and the late afternoon sun glitters through rows and rows of tall windows. The hushed talk and rustling pages soothe my mind, and a painful wish suddenly forms in my heart.

I want to work here. I want to live here. Sleep among the old tomes, and absorb all the knowledge. I want to forget the world behind these walls. Dive in ages-old stories of long-lost heroes, and into the knowledge of all possible empires that ruled this land. I want to read it all, and I want to jot down notes like the frowning student two desks away.

When a shaking breath escapes me, the man across the desk tilts his head and forms a silent question.

“I’m fine,” I utter, and he nods. Once again, he looks through the pages I have delivered. There’s an aura about him: content and confident, and the tome he studied is nothing more than a simple children’s abc. The poor deceit doesn’t seem to bother him and he nods with every other word he reads from the letter.

My skin is calm and cool - he isn’t a mage. He broke the seal without hesitation, and I spot a stone-adorned ring on his left hand. I have seen these before, mostly worn by the rich folk. Few by capable thieves that relieved the nobles of their enchanted burden. The rings have a spell locked inside, and can be used for various purposes.

He finishes the missive and nods with a faint smile.

“Your reward will be delivered to the outpost you left today,” he says and rolls the paper into his own bag. As if nothing transpired between us, he walks off and I am left alone, with Celene’s rigid eye staring at the kiddie book in front of me.

“Mock me, why don't you,” I growl at the portrait. The two girls that watched our little exchange giggle at my comment and dash off into a narrow space formed by massive shelves. Their dresses shift and rustle and I can only imagine that whatever they are doing there most likely doesn’t include books - or only the naughty kind.

The letters on the page in front of me taunt me, and I force my eyes to lock on them. I can recognize them all; it’s when they form words that I become lost.

In the age of...an-...ansh-...anc…

I slam my hand on the yellowed page. What kind of a monster puts such a complicated word in a children's book?

My heartbeat rises as an overwhelming feeling of panic takes a hold of my mind. I don’t belong here. I never will, and I shouldn’t overstay my already feeble welcome.

With heart pumping high in my throat, I force my legs into a casual tempo across the hall. Once in the lobby, I dart from the library so quickly that my hood nearly falls off by the staircase. The doormen let out a chuckle, as if they expected this to happen, and I stick my tongue at them. Instantly, I feel ridiculously childish.

The crowd has thinned but my gesture doesn’t go unnoticed. I hear a disgruntled mumble from under the glittering masks, and dash across the white cobblestone and into the collapsing alcove I came through before. Grateful for the silver half-mask, I collapse against the crumbling facade, and I bite my wrist. Sharp pain resonates through the bones and my panic subsides.

Screw this job. I need to go back to running smuggled goods through old town. Dangerous, but in a familiar way.

I’m set on talking Sera out of my new route by the time I arrive back at the outpost, sweating from my hasty race through the hidden alleys. Li’fen is gone and an odd looking boy lets me in instead. I force a smile on my lips, but secretly wonder whether he was lucky to be found, or went through some heavy shit before ending up in here. A lot of the Awakened that get snatched by Jennies go through our little outpost before moving further, and I’ve seen a share of misfortune and suffering; as well as misplaced beings.

The boy jumps off to a window and lays across the windowsill, watching the darkened alley behind it. Tiny tusks protrude from his mouth and his skin is an unhealthy shade of green. He’s stocky and short, but looks no more than ten years old, and I am sure he’ll mature into an intimidating man - or creature. Maker only knows.

Theran gives my disheveled look a disapproving stare. “Followers after you?” he asks with a slight grin.

I let out a long breath. “Maybe. Sera here?”

“Ask again after you see your pay,” he smiles and nods to my little room. He knows me by now; and as always, tries to prevent any rush decisions.

The reward sits in the same place as the letter, and I weigh it in my hand. The pouch is heavy - much heavier than I’d expect for a simple letter. A quick glance through the contents makes me grin. I’ll eat well tonight.

And I might keep this new route after all.


End file.
